Neon Blue by E Frost (best book reader .TXT) 📗

I go to retrieve them from the kitchen. “Alcohol’s a depressant, you know.”

That good, masculine laugh. “Yeah, I know. You wouldn’t believe how many alcohol awareness seminars I’ve had to go to. Freshman week, I tell you.”

I listen to his anecdotes while we eat. The curry’s coconutty spiciness warms and soothes me. The beer takes away my headache. Makes me feel better about the questions that are still buzzing around in my brain. Peter’s humor is infectious and I find myself laughing with him.

He sets aside the remains of his Pad Thai and leans back into the couch cushions. “How ‘bout some postprandial relaxation?” He stretches out his arm for me.

A cuddle sounds pretty great right now. I put my plate down on the end table, twist around and settle into the curve of his arm.

“Mm, you smell good,” he says, sniffing my hair. I smile up at him. So does he. Warm and peanutty from his Pad Thai with only the faintest hint of cigarette smoke. It could be a bad combination, but on him, it’s not. “You’ve been really quiet tonight. Stressed?”

“A little.”

“Want to talk about it?”

I do, but I’ve got no idea how to ask him about his connection to my tortured ghost. Not without opening a huge can of worms. “Have you ever had one of those weeks where nothing goes right and everyone’s yelling at you?” Screaming, actually, but that’s T.M.I. “And you’re really not sure what’s wrong and they won’t tell you?”

“Sure. Sounds like every tenure meeting I’ve been to.”

I chuckle. I’d rather deal with my ghost than a bunch of angry academics.

“Sometimes you just need to get some perspective,” he says. “Take a couple of days off. Let everyone remember how much they need you. How about it?”

I’m not following. “How about what?”

“How about coming away with me this weekend?”

God, yes. I’d give anything to be able to go away with him for the weekend.

“We could drive up to Portland. Hole up in a little B-and-B. Separate rooms, I promise.” He holds up two fingers again. Maybe he really was a Boy Scout. “Drink some smelly microbrew.” He tinks his beer glass against mine. “Find me some matching moose slippers. The fall colors might even have started up there. How does that sound?”

It sounds wonderful. Fall is my favorite season and I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more than drive up to Maine with Peter and admire nature’s display. But when we come back, the Dead and the fae and the occasional shifter will still be waiting for me. And for him, if he becomes part of my life.

“I-I think—”

“It would be rushing things, huh?” He blows a breath out through his nose, ruffling my hair. “I figured you’d say that. But I thought I’d ask anyway.”

He sounds so dejected I can’t stand it. I twist around in his arms. “I think it sounds amazing and I would love to go to Maine with you.”

To my horror, everything that’s gotten on top of me over the last few days wells up. My chin trembles. The first hot tear spills and slides down my cheek.

“Hey.” Peter sets his beer down and takes my face in his hands. He wipes away the tear. Smiling gently, he kisses me.

His mouth is soft and warm. Not demanding. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him back. Wait for the electric sparks to rise. Sex is magic. One of the oldest and most powerful magics. Even Saul, who had no real talent at all, could call some amazing energy when we were really going at it.

Nothing happens. I lean into Peter’s firm chest, open my mouth, inviting him in. He brushes my lips with his tongue.

And there’s still nothing. No rush of energy. No spark. Is he holding back?

I break the kiss to look into his face. He’s flushed. Breathing a little fast. He doesn’t look like he’s holding back.

And then it hits me. He’s a null.

“Tsara? You okay?”

I nod, but I’m not okay. I’m anything but okay. He’s a null. I’ll never feel anything other than physical pleasure with him. No energy. No magic.

“You sure? You look like the world has ended.”

Smiling in that moment is the bravest, and most dishonest thing, I’ve done in a long time. At least since slipping the memory charm into his coffee. “Yeah, I’m just . . . wiped out. It’s been a hell of a week.”

“C’mere.” He tucks me into his nice, solid chest. Cuddles me. Strokes my hair. He begins talking again, telling me more college stories. And I cry, absolutely silently, held against that nice chest.

Some time after I run out of tears and he begins yawning, Peter finally leaves. He keeps his promise. He doesn’t push to stay the night. After a few more spark-less kisses and a promise to call me tomorrow to finalize our weekend plans, he goes gracefully. I watch him drive away, feeling sick. I’ll have to come up with some excuse why I can’t go away with him. More lies.

I plod back into my kitchen and lean against the sink while a pot of hazelnut decaf brews. I feel leaden. Drained. I could go to bed, but it’s not even ten o’clock yet and I’ll either lie awake for hours with my mind and stomach churning, or fall asleep right away and be up at three a.m. No good.

When the coffee brews, I take a cup and walk with it into my herbarium. The rich, green smell of drying herbs greets me. It always makes me feel better, the smell of my herb room. I potter around for a while, tying up bunches of mint and valerian. Slowly, I clear my worktable until all I have left is the pile of Solomon’s Seal.

I look at it speculatively while I sip my coffee. Like calls to like, I told the Squire. Solomon’s Seal to Solomon’s Seal. It should be enough to make even one of my lackluster tracking charms work.

I take a